One of the most unassuming filmmakers of Britain’s early period (and, with 1960’s astonishing Peeping Tom, its middle period as well), Michael Powell entered the golden age of his career with The Edge of the World. Though he had already made over 20 films by 1937, it represented one of his first successfully realized and self-actualized stabs at what would become one of his chief directorial strengths: the ability to film a very specific and localized environment in a manner that emphasizes its otherworldly fantasias and, paradoxically, remains faithful to the area’s ethnographical features.
To watch the film is to bear witness to Powell’s unique alchemy. Throughout, he infuses a weather-battered island community off the coast of Scotland on the verge of abandonment with off-kilter camera angles, dreamily gauzy cinematography, and a becalmed detachment that lets the characters and scenario do the work for him.
Which isn’t to say that Powell occasionally indulges in a few melodramatic flourishes that he managed to avoid in his masterful collaborations with Emeric Pressburger, including I Know Where I’m Going and Black Narcissus. For instance, he superimposes a montage of mournful reminiscences over a character’s thoughtful close-up on two separate occasions. And for all of the near-documentary-like attitudes that Powell exercises when filming the island’s close-knit community, the screenplay (by Powell and an uncredited John L. Balderston and John Byrd) too often lapses into overly plotty solutions to various conflicts. But in general, The Edge of the World is rife with the sort of miraculously unforced moments of enchantment that one has always come to expect from one of Britain’s most underrated auteurs.
Image/Sound
As it says in the press release, Milestone and the BFI collaborated on a brand-spanking new digital transfer of the film from the original negative, and the results are basically wonderful. Though they stopped short of the sort of digital restoration that, say, Criterion performed on The Passion of Joan of Arc and L’Avventura (meaning that there are occasional blemishes, tears and black frames), the film still looks quite sharp for its age. As can be expected, the soundtrack aged a little bit faster than the picture, but even so it’s a lot less shrill and distorted than one might expect. The poignant musical score by Cyril Ray is surprisingly full.
Extras
Image comes up with a well-rounded spate of extra features, including the obligatory commentary track, though this one is blessed with the knowledgeable Ian Christie’s take on the film. He’s also joined by Powell’s widow and Martin Scorsese’s current film editor Thelma Schoonmaker, who comes off a bit cheerleader-like, but still sincere and insightful. Daniel Day-Lewis drops in occasionally to orate from Powell’s memoirs. An exemplary yak-track. Also included are two short films by Powell. The first is a brief bit of jingoistic WWII propaganda in which a mother tears up over an “I died defending my country” letter from her son. It’s left unclear whether she cries for his death or his apparent brainwashing from military service. The other, 1978’s Return to the Edge of the World, is a winning stab at a sort of essay film-lite format in which Powell and John Laurie (and various other crew members from the original Edge of the World) come back to the island of Foula to reminisce and wax all poetic-like. It’s charming and mysterious, and also happens to be the last film Powell ever directed. Rounding out the set are press kits and photo galleries.
Overall
The always respectful ethnographer in Michael Powell transforms the melodrama of his own scenario into an epic death knell for a forgotten island civilization.
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